


A Different Kind of Job

by moroder



Category: Tribe Twelve
Genre: Gen, Occasional slurs, along with Admin, basically the whole Collective, the Agency AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6810364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moroder/pseuds/moroder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where the Collective is some sort of a detective agency. But people only contact it in the very worst scenarios.</p><p>Based on a Tumblr idea. Won't likely update much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of Job

In the days of our present, it is not considered a rare thing to consult a detective agency. A convenient and efficient way to get what you want – what could be better? However, there is one particular agency which has a reputation of the last instance that people only consult in most horrifying and confusing cases.

None of the agents has a name; or, better said, never uses one, instead calling each other by strange nicknames. Nobody has ever seen the boss – neither the clients, nor agents themselves. Everything went to such an edge of secrecy that people only consulted the agency when their problems took an unpredictable and unexpectable turn.

There were, although, some benefits in calling them. The agents' work was worth it, and 99% of the requests were successfully finished, though often in a kind of illegal way.

* * *

 

"Mornin', Heady."  
"Mm–hm."

The kitchen was empty sans two: first one has been sitting at the table for a while already, the other one just entered.

"What? Take your mask off, it's all muffled."  
"Never."

The sitting one pulled his mask further up his face.

"Ah, hell. Is anyone else there? Cursor, Scars?"  
"Cursor is always there, man. Don't you know?"  
"I ain't supposed to know everything!"  
"Tsk, what an attitude."

The argument faded away after these words. The second guy took his teacup out of the kitchen shelves, poured some yellow liquid in it and sat down at the table.

"I'm more concerned about Admin, honestly."  
_"The Administrator."_  
_"Who cares_ , Dead! We've been running on empty for a month already. Where'd all ladies go?"  
"We're not those usual agencies, you know. People rarely even approach this building."  
"Even so! Gah, we used to be needed before!"  
"Is that sound of Observer fretting again?"

A content, yet resonant voice added to the argument. Both turned their heads to see the third agent – a short blond woman; she was peering at the scene from behind the corner.

"It is, girl!"  
"Morning, Cursor", the masked man yawned. "Don't mind him."  
"Nothing I'd miss", she smiled. Her odd half–transparent glasses flashed in the sunlight peering at the window. "Early birdies today, huh?"  
"Not really, been working at night."

 _"Guys?!"_  Observer yelped, throwing his hands up in the air. "It's fifth week since we did anything! You ain't concerned?"

"Not enjoying your little vacation, are you", Cursor waved lazily. "The Administrator isn't happy as well though. Few days ago he sent me a single word  _irritated._  He must be as eager to work as you are, Obsy."  
"Ha! Knew he would", the dark–skinned guy responded proudly. "Any other news?"

"Swain has gone yesterday evening, you two weren't here. Mentioned something about his uniform."  
"The war lad just HAD to change it someday", Observer commented. "Who wears WWI uniforms nowadays?"  
"He does, obviously", Cursor squinted. "Or he did. Who knows now."  
"Discussing Swain's taste in clothes won't get us far", Deadhead noticed.  
"True. See where lack of working leads us, Cursor?"

She shrugged, not interested much.

* * *

 

Five hours later, sitting in the main hall, four people found themselves inside the office. Observer was desperately trying to get a stain off his glasses; Deadhead was reading 'Digital Fortress' and Cursor just came back from the local store. Fourth person was the one whose uniform slipped into discussion; the other unique trait of his was the mask he almost constantly wore. Nobody in the Collective – that's how the agents called themselves unofficially – questioned why he kept hiding his face, just like no one asked Deadhead about his bandanna that hid the face area down his nose. They appreciated each other's privacy most of the time; nobody used actual names and, most likely, identities. Whatever his comedy theatre mask meant, at that time Swain kept silent and sat apart as if sleeping.

A tinkling sound got their attention, and Cursor hurried over to check the desk computer.

"It's him", she announced thoughtfully. " _Get ready_ , he wrote."  
"Anything else in the message?" Deadhead asked, eyes on the book.  
"Nope, only this. Hold your horses, watchboy", Cursor shook a finger at Observer in warning. "He'll notify us when to move out."  
"Cross my eyes, girl!" he exclaimed and threw himself at where his reading colleague sat.

Being the actual messenger of the Collective, the cross–eyed woman was rarely mistaken. Her vision was pretty good compared to the dark–skinned guy's, but the glasses became a constant part of her face. They also hid the reason of her 'cross–eyed' nickname: two bold scars marked each eye of hers, making then look crossed out.

As Cursor said, the Administrator always kept in touch in case he needed them; so it happened.

* * *

 

The next day, with no one present, it began.

Wiping dust off the working table, Cursor found an envelope with a large paper sheet tightly folded inside: an inevitable sign of  _his_  presence, as the Admin used this supernatural feature quite rarely. She called each one of her colleagues and waited patiently for them to arrive; only then, in front of three other agents, she read it aloud.

 _"What?"_  was the first reaction, originated in Observer's corner. "Is that really all?"  
"Yes.  _The Journal_  and an address", she responded flatly.  
"Short but understood", Deadhead commented. "You don't like something?"  
"Not quite, but… This one's fairly short."  
"Observer is right", Swain inserted, his voice muffled and cold from behind the mask. "It usually contains more than just coordinates. The owner of journal, for example."  
"Oh well, it's cool", Observer's glasses flashed for a second, "we're gonna figure it out, I guess. The Admin never gives anything extra when it comes to data."

Deadhead sighed and put his 'Fortress' aside, standing up.

"We gotta go either way. Observer, come along."

The latter groaned, turning to him.

"Why not Scars or Swain, huh?"  
"You're the one so eager to get your ass working", Cursor chuckled, making him growl. Deadhead rolled his eyes and patted his myopic colleague's shoulder; the dark–skinned guy waved a lazy goodbye as they both left.

* * *

 

 Although bearing an 'Observer' name, he wasn't that good in observing and watching. His job mostly consisted of breaking into houses, stealing information from digital devices, dropping all sorts of listeners around and so on. The one who really watched was Cursor, being the communicative center of the Collective; and so was the Administrator, without doubt. Now the situation Observer got stuck in wasn't appealing to him at all. Fastened to his front passenger seat in the operative car, he could only watch, and watch, and yawn, and watch, and drink lemonade occasionally, and watch. Nevertheless, the situation didn't bother his colleague, as he kept sitting in one place for hours with only stirring and taking short gulps from his flask.

"Heady."  
"Yes?"  
"Aren't you bored?"  
"I'm concentrated."  
"So you are bored."  
"Go take a walk if you're numb."  
"I'd like to, but that'll ruin our cover!" Observer exclaimed, his seatbelt still fastened. Deadhead contemplated him for a moment before mumbling a short reply:  
"True."

And there they went again. Complete silence, with occasional sounds of Observer's shifting in his seat and his colleague's barely audible breath. Hours passed, no luck; no one came in and out of the house addressed in the letter.

As Deadhead already wanted to turn back to the office, however, an accident happened. A guy approximately twenty years old knocked at the house door, and someone responded; an old man stepped out, only over the doorstep, and brought an enormous amount of swearing down on the youngster. While it poured, the masked guy managed to take a clear photo of the houseman's face, wasting no time and sending it to the office in an instant.

"That guy's manners ain't pretty at all", the dark–skinned man noted grimly. "Hope he's not the one we're gonna need."  
"He probably is. Any data, Cursor?"

In front of her, thousands of symbols flew past her motionless gaze, hundreds of photos passed by, until it stopped, finding a potential result. But the Messenger already knew what she was going to answer.

"It's Karl Maxwell, owner of the house."  
"Really? How did you find that out so quickly?" a glimmer of distrust sparkled in Deadhead's voice.  
"Well, I checked the address first, and the photo came up… pretty simple, eh?"  
"Simple?! That's what we've been stuck here for during the whole DAY!" Observer yelled, hitting the car window on his side. "Couldn't you say that before?"  
"Tshh! He's done."

The masked agent thumped a hand against his colleague's mouth; at the same time, the house door slammed shut. Both threw themselves back on seats, annoyed.

"Hell. Is that all we've discovered?"  
"Yeah, a fact we've already knew. What a discover", Observer cringed, fixing his glasses, and glared at the sun slowly going down. "We should maybe quit for today?"  
"Fair enough."

The other guy turned away and fell silent. Not a single word escaped anyone's mouth for a good minute.

"Wait. Are you gonna– NO. Get me to the office right now."  
"It's convenient. We'll start working asap."  
"I won't sleep in a car! My back's g–"  
"You're free to go wherever you want."  
"Okay. Fine!"

Glasses flashed in the vanishing sun as he unbuckled the seatbelt and stormed out of the car. The other one shrugged and stirred in his seat, making himself comfortable. Then he locked the car doors from the inside and soon fell asleep, only to be woken an hour later by Observer tapping at the glass.

* * *

 

None of them wished a good morning on the next day. The dark–skinned guy was right; a night on a car seat instead of a compatibly sized bed made his shoulders stiffen, and his colleague woke him at approximately 6 a.m. so they could watch the house. Nobody liked the situation they were in.

"Maxwell, she said?"  
"Yes."  
"Hmm. Something about this name just makes me go UGH, you know?"  
"Why so?"  
"Dunno, man. Feels… like something back in mind. Crap."  
"You'll figure it out later. Now look."

At that time a young man approached the house and knocked at the doors. To the agents' delight, the house owner didn't swear that much, instead greeting him hastily before bringing him in. The visitor turned around once, and Observer managed to take a picture of him just in time.

"Sending him to Cursor", he mumbled. "Seems he's different from others, since the old man let him in so fast."  
"He at least let him in", Deadhead agreed. "He might be a social worker or a relative, I guess."  
"Yeah. Maybe we should get going? I'm hungry as hell."  
"And survelliance?"  
"All cool, Dead! You don't trust me or what?"

The other guy moved his mask up the nose and started the engine. As they passed by a large oak in front of Maxwell's house, a tiny camera blinked at their sight.

* * *

 

 "So? Anybody else been working, huh?"

The sound of chewing filled the conference room. Observer was eating a double sandwich, while the others sat at a ridiculously long table, each lost in their thoughts. Swain and Cursor remained the same, but another agent entered the room today; a seemingly lonely young man with bandages all over his throat and hands. His friendly nickname was Mr. Scars, but most colleagues used just Scars as a short one.

"Everyone's working when you don't watch, Observer", the blondie chuckled, and Scars made a sigh. "That guy you've sent me, I've found him."  
"Don't hold it, cross", the masked guy hissed, "what's the info?"  
"The guy who visited Karl Maxwell this morning is his grandson, apparently. Name's Noah Maxwell. He lives in…"

As Cursor went on revealing guy's personal data, Observer went silent. He even stopped chewing while swallowing hard and thinking. He certainly remembered this name, there was no mistake, but… How, where and why?  
Then suddenly, he realised. Of course!

At the exact moment of Cursor finishing the data talk, a loud  _thump!_  went through the table from the glasses–wearing agent.

"It's. Fucking. Maxwell", he said loudly, separating words. The rest looked at him, confused.  
"We know that, Obsy", Deadhead groaned, "no need to–"  
"Lemme finish. That guy – the one who takes my place sometimes – it's a close friend of his."  
"You mean, your… erm, other self?" Mr. Scars asked quietly, and Observer waved a hand at him.  
"Yeah, that… Kevin guy or whatever his name is."  
"Kevin Haas", Cursor noted, fixing her glasses.  
"I don't care! What's important, it's that he knows Noah really well. That could be an advantage, people!"

"What are you talking about?" Swain slipped into discussion, turning to him.  
"Look. The journal is most likely at the old man's house. His grandson is allowed there somehow. Then. I've got the face of a guy who's a friend for him. Get it where I'm going?"  
"I think I do", Deadhead hemmed thoughtfully.  
"Great. Then it's nothing left to discuss, people! I've got the Carte Blanche. I get closer, I talk him into taking the journal, I leave. Job's done!"

"One question", Scars stated gently, at first not acknowledged by Observer. "How are you supposed to trick him into taking the journal since you – yourself – are NOT that one friend?"  
"Well, I'm–"  
"I doubt Kevin will help that out of free will", Swain muttered in agreement. "Judging by the last time you woke him, he's not going to cooperate with the Collective at all."  
"I won't ask that dumbshit! His body is mine, and everything I wish, I will do. He's under control so far."  
_"So far"_ , Cursor mimicked, sighing. "Here's the deal, Obsy. You DO ask your dear neighbor for help, but if he refuses, use him at your own will. We have to get Noah to cooperate with us. That way, things will get easier."

"Things would get easier if we just broke in and stole the journal", the skullmasked guy yawned, though no one saw that; Cursor hissed at him.  
"We are trying to be patient and polite, remember? Last time was a disaster for us all and the Administrator as well."  
"Hell with this."  
"So we DO use Mr. Haas in our needs, then", Scars murmured, standing up. Everyone set eyes at him, an unspoken question in their glances. He shrugged childishly. "I'm off to start working, onwards. There's a need."

He left the conference room; Observer took another bite of his sandwich.

"Welp, someone's gonna be a busy bee", he muttered, mouth full of bread.  
"Someone, but what about you?" Deadhead asked warningly. "You ain't going on vacation, you know."  
"Who, me? Heheh. For me, it's negotiating time with– ugh, Mr. Haas. Damn it."  
"Good luck", Cursor and Swain said in unison, both turning away. The dark–skinned agent shoved the remains of sandwich into his mouth and sat at the table.  
"Thankies. Perhaps someone needs to take up the old man instead of me?"

The skull on Deadhead's mask slowly moved up as he frowned.

"What makes you think I'm out?"  
"Oh, but won't you feel… kinda lonely without me? Who's gonna keep you company?"  
"Whoever. I'd ask Persolus at the very end." He pulled the hood further on his forehead, not answering anymore.

If Observer was offended by this remark, he didn't show it this time – seemed that he had something better to do. Without saying goodbyes, he left the room and headed to his own asylum – a small closet just for himself, the place where he kept most of his listening and recording devices. None of them ever failed him, and none started working on its own. He pulled a briefcase out of the tallest shelves, stroked it lovingly and locked the chamber, heading towards exit. As always, dirty work's all on him – and he never whined, ‘cause it's his only favorite kind of work.

**Author's Note:**

> Observer is such a child, I apologize.
> 
> Tumblr posts for Agency AU:  
> http://goo.gl/9jmwsL  
> http://goo.gl/4TJ9WU


End file.
